Whiskey in the Jar
by Faia Saiyajin
Summary: This one's pretty pointless. Spike's sitting in a bar, thinking about his problems, and drinking enough to try and forget them. But is it ever that easy?


title: Whiskey in the Jar  
series: Cowboy Bebop  
author: Faia Saiyajin  
rating: PG-13  
--I don't own anything. Seriously.   
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"What can I get you, sir?"  
  
Christ. Talk about super service. He hadn't even sat down yet. Spike Speigel pulled off his blue jacket, and slung it over the barstool beside him. "Ah.... V.O. and water, if you please." The jukebox in the corner played some soft, depressing jazz. Definitely the mood music.  
  
"Right away, sir."  
  
Dead Horse Bar. What a friggin' name. It smelled like a dead horse, anyway. The place was crawling with sods, prostitutes, and musically inclined drunks. The perfect place to sit and contemplate your life. Spike knew from experience. If you wanna feel better about yourself, get drunk at a place where the lowest of the low do. You'll come out feeling a hell of a sight better about yourself... even if you wind up sick due to the rotgut and watered-down drinks. Jet had landed on Ganymede, for provisions, and Spike had decided to go have some fun with his old buddy alcohol. Ah... liquor. The greatest invention to mankind.  
  
Spike stared at his multi-reflection in the dusty bottles lining the shelves behind the bar. His drink arrived, sitting on what looked like a previously used cocktail napkin. Rapture. This place had about as much money as the Bebop did.  
  
Spike had come to the Dead Horse Bar to address some problems with a few drinks. He had three major problems to deal with. Hopefully he'd have them all figured out by the end of the night... or at least he'd wind up drunk enough to forget about them until next time. They formed a little list in his head.   
  
A) Julia and Vicious  
  
B)Vicious and the Red Dragons  
  
C)The Red Dragons and the future of the Bebop and her crew.  
  
And the real bitch was that they all ran into one another. Getting Julia from Vicious meant that Vicious would send the Dragons after him. And having the Dragons sent after him meant that Jet and everyone else was in danger.  
  
Spike lifted his glass, the icecubes clinking lightly. "Ahh... shit." He muttered, sipping the whiskey and water. He was surprised to find that the drink was rather strong. Looks like he hadn't gotten the thinned out whiskey. Lucky him. Lucky lucky him. He snorted, and set the glass down, withdrawing a pack of cigarettes. He nearly laughed aloud when he saw the full pack.   
  
No matter how broke he and the others were... there was always enough money for cigs. He pulled one from the pack with his teeth, and then nearly had his eyebrows set aflame as the bartender stepped forward with a lighter. "Thanks." Spike muttered, rubbing his eyes, exhaling a puff of smoke. He hadn't been here ten minutes, and already he was attracting attention.   
  
There was a woman, sitting at the corner of the bar, not 6 stools from him. She glanced coyly at him, tracing her fingers around the rim of her glass. Spike fixed his gaze on his drink, watching the patterns of melting ice mixing with the booze. She wasn't bad looking... but judging from the look of her, and the fact that she was in this particular bar, it was a wonder that the instant she had sat on the stool she didn't fall to the floor. Spike's lips curled into a small smile, at his sick little pun. But daaammn... it would be nice to get laid.  
  
Exhaling another cloud of smoke, Spike took another drink. He slowly rotated his wrist, the ice sliding around in the near-empty glass. It would be great to get some ass... but there was only one woman he wanted. And he wasn't even sure why he wanted her... maybe it was just the notion that if he didn't get her, Vicious would. Did he love Julia? Spike snorted. Could that squinty-eyed psychopath even feel love? Or was it just the same thing, only flipped around...? Did he want Julia because Spike wanted her?   
  
"What tangled webs we weave..." Spike sighed loud enough to rattle the windows. The bartender re-appeared.  
  
"Anything else sir?"  
  
"Yeah. Another V.O. and water."   
  
"Yessir."   
  
Spike flicked the ashes from his cigarette onto the rough bartop. The woman down the bar was still watching him. But Spike didn't even bat an eyelash at her. He stifled a smile of relief when someone motioned for her, and she left, for one of the tables in the back.  
  
Feh. Women. Nothing but trouble. He had already thought about problem number one, which was indeed women, and hadn't come up with a solution, ...so it was best to move on to problem number two. Pushing Julia from his mind, he saw the image of Mao Yenrai, Vicious, and the other Dragons, Lin and his twin brother Shin standing out especially clear.   
  
What a bitch this was turning out to be. All he had wanted to do was get out. Instead, he dug himself in deeper. He was sure that Vicious still wanted him dead. And Vicious had himself an entire crime circle behind him. All Spike had was Jet and Ed... oh yes.. and let's not forget about Faye. Good old Faye. Spike butted out his cigarette on the bartop, leaving a pretty little burn mark on the wood.  
  
His drink arrived, and Spike nearly swallowed it in one gulp. Vicious had people willing to die for him. Like Lin. Poor confused Lin. Poor, confused, dead Lin. Spike shook his head sadly, and lit another cigarette. This was getting so confusing... everything. The Red Dragons, Vicious, Julia, the Bebop, his past, the present, what little future he had left. ...so extraneous. It grew to be tiresome. But Spike couldn't let that get to him. He was so hell-bent on figuring all this out he didn't hear the transmitter in his coat pocket ring.   
  
What was there to live for, if he let his problems eat him alive? "Whatever happens, happens." He muttered, flicking another ash into the pile on the bartop. His eyes wandered, studying the patrons around him. Here was a perfect example of why he needed to let go of everything. He didn't want to be one of these godforsaken people, in here everyday, moping about their 'shoulda-coulda-woulda's', drowning in liquor and sorrow. Yeah sure, his own troubles came back to bite him in the ass occasionally... which was the reason he was here, naturally, but he just took it one day at a time.   
  
Two more V.O and waters came and went. He had smoked enough cigarettes to burn a smiley face into the bartop. Spike's eyes were resisting the need to focus. His head was also starting to spin. Cripes. He'd need an acre of Prairie Oysters for this hangover.  
  
The bar was emptying out, slowly. Last call must be coming up soon. "Anything else?" The bartender said. Spike shuddered. If he heard that phrase again he'd shoot the man.  
  
"Whiskey sour." He was still stuck on problem two. But it was simple. Cut his ties with the Dragons fully, and spare his buddies getting mauled by assassins. He'd have to face Vicious, and kill him. Spike knocked back the drink in one burning gulp. One drink turned into four. He formed this notion in his drunken and addled head that right now, he'd go see Vicious. His old buddy Vicious. He'd end it now. Now was a good a time as any. He smiled, a drunken, regretful, goofy smile if there ever was one.  
  
"Check, please." He slurred. The bartender nodded, and handed his bill to him. Thirty woolongs. Not bad for all the drinks he had consumed. No wonder all the bums liked this place. He dropped the cash on the receipt, and stood. ...well he tried to, anyway. His motor control was shot. Spike was reeeaaallly very drunk at the moment. He barely had the faculties enough to pick his jacket up off the barstool, and turn around without falling over.   
  
"I'm goooinnng to kiilll Vicious..." he stuttered, weebling and wobbling to the door. He instantly bumped into another person. "Oop. Sorry man."   
  
"Drunk again, Spike old boy?" It was Jet. Apparently he'd been out here too long.   
  
"Hhhhyup."  
  
"Great. I tried to get ahold of you nearly an hour ago. You didn't answer."  
  
"Oh. Well sorry... the drinks were talking too loudly."  
  
Jet sighed heavily. "Spike. By the gods.. you had me worried."  
  
"Ooohh Jet. I'm fine. Reaally." He bobbled past his partner, standing in the street.  
  
"Where're you going?" Jet turned, his forehead creasing with worry lines.  
  
"To kill Vicious."  
  
"Spike.. I don't think that's the best idea. ...Especially in your current state." He grabbed Spike by his collar, pulling him back. Almost instantly Spike Speigel's legs gave out on him, and he leaned heavily on Jet. Jet sighed again, looking skyward. He put Spike's left arm around his shoulders, helping the sloshed young man to stand and walk. "Why do you want to kill him?"  
  
"B'cause, Jet.." Spike looked up at him, smiling in his stupor. Jet nearly gagged. Spike's breath could dissolve paint off a house. "B'cause... yer my only friend in the entire solar system..."  
  
"That's really comforting, Spike." Jet muttered.  
  
"And 'cause I don't wanna see you get ...hic.. killed..."  
  
Jet lifted a brow at the man. Spike still wore that goofy smile.  
  
"Er.. thanks... I think..."  
  
"Anytime, pal." The two then made their way back to the Bebop, Jet dragging Spike most of the way.  
  
"Oh... oh... ohhh maaan..." Spike looked sick. As green as his hair sick. Jet backed away. He wasn't that good of a friend that he'd let his plastered partner puke on him.  
  
Spike rested his forehead against the damp brick of a building. Hic, hic hiiiiiiiiiic. BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP!! Spike's burp was deafening. Jet looked uneasy. He turned away, his eyes squeezed shut in a grimace.  
  
"Feel better?" He asked finally, his back still to Spike.  
  
"Much." Most of the alcohol he'd drank was deposited in a slurry mess on the cement. Spike stood, careful not to fall over. He lit a cigarette, as Jet once again helped him walk.  
  
"A thousand miles..." Spike mused.  
  
"What of it?" Jet replied, as they walked.  
  
"I've traveled thousands of miles... and no matter what... it all looks the same."  
  
Jet blinked. He didn't get it. "Huh?"  
  
"No matter how far I think I can run, or how much I try to forget... it always winds up looking the same. ..it all comes down to puke on the pavement."  
  
  
...hope ya feel better, Space Cowboy...  
  
--You guys already know that alcohol doesn't solve anything... all you do is wind up drunk and forgetful. It's a pretty meaningless experience. And to paraphrase Woody Allen, 'as far as meaningless experiences go, it's still a pretty damn good experience.' 


End file.
